


what it did to you

by BrosleCub12



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: And Lots of It, Anxiety, Coming Out, Crying, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e25 Cup IV - Center Ice, Tater makes a cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: Jack can feel it coming.





	what it did to you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, y'all! Here is yet another little ficlet; the result of a couple of stressful weeks that sent my anxiety levels sky-high (too high by far) and I wanted to get this up before I start a week and a half of solid work. I enjoyed the December updates (was crowing in the staffroom at the developments) and while trying to get myself back on an even keel, found myself wanting to write this as inspired by 'Cup IV - Center Ice.' Additionally and oddly enough, another source of inspiration for this one was a particular Weeknd song. *shrugs*
> 
> Please note: This has not been beta-read, so all mistakes are mine, but I would like to warn for anxiety and mentions of homophobia, as well as Bitty's canonical fear of coming out to his parents (hoping they take it well *cracks knuckles*). Of course, I do not own Check Please.

* * *

 

Jack can feel it coming. He can feel it shaking down Bitty’s bones, rattling his body like a stick chucked at a cage, a tremor that leaves his whole body unstable, unsupported. He remembers scrabbling at his own throat, his hair, back during the Really Bad Days, needing something to ground him, needing to dig his nails into solid skin. He remembers tears; remembers _remembering_ that sometimes, crying it all out was all he could do.

He knows it so well – dear Lord, to borrow a phrase from Bitty, _does_ he know it – and he holds Bits close, so incredibly close on the bed, his boyfriend sobbing into his chest, an aching, tremulous wail; _I just don’t have the words,_ six syllables that have been rattling around the bedroom for the last few moments since Jack found him like this, filling up the silence with a hundred imagined reactions.

‘You don’t have to tell her now,’ Jack tries to soothe, all the time unable to shake the knowledge that this bridge is something that he and Bits _must_ cross at some point, that they keep stopping themselves from even _building,_ even if opportunity gives them the boardwalk. Hesitating at the edge and then walking determinedly in the other direction, holding hands all the tighter for it.

And anyway, with some bridges, Jack has learned to expect trolls lurking underneath.

‘We’ll get there,’ he promises Bitty all the same; those are _his_ trolls, after all, nobody else’s. ‘I promise you, bud, we’ll get there.’ None of those useless _I don’t know hows or whens_ – that’s not important, or helpful. The most crucial thing is that it’s _we_ – not _I,_ or _you._ They’re a team, after all.

‘She’s my Mama,’ Bitty sobs into his t-shirt, ‘and she – she should know, Jack. She’s _got_ to know.’

Honestly; Jack doesn’t know how to interpret that – or even what Bits himself means by that. He likes the Bittle family but it’s things like this – Bitty sobbing in a ball on the master bed where they’ve spent so many hours kissing and talking and loving, both under the covers and on top of them – that trips him up: fact is, he could _tell._ So early on he could tell – all but confirmed during the whole Winter Screw/’pie in the library’ saga and he’d only known the kid for a semester. Was flummoxed by him and his sashaying around their kitchen baking and singing Beyonce, but still: didn’t want him to be scared. Don’t the Bittles know their son, their _only_ son, well enough to understand just who Bitty is?

…Then again: his own parents didn’t know about the pills until Jack was found passed out on that bathroom floor. 

They kept loving him, though, all the same, his Mum and Dad. Okay, they may have been unable to stare at him without wide, windowed, guilty eyes; without dark circles painting their faces; without tissues on the side-table that his father had to keep surreptitiously plucking up and turning away to use. There may have been weeks of horrified silence, but they were _there –_ holding him close but not too close to break him, protecting him against a backdrop of accusations: _Attention-seeking, spoiled brat; not up to the game; what the hell have **you** got to worry about?_ Torn apart by the press, by the fans and by other junior hockey players whose parents weren’t close personal friends with Wayne Gretzky. Shielded him from it and more.

And then after all that – his Papa just told him, simply and softly, a hand anchoring Jack by the shoulder, to follow his heart.

‘I hate not telling her,’ Bitty cries and Jack swallows, suddenly wanting to cry himself at the simple prospect of a boy – and the boy he loves, no less – not being able to tell his mother something like this.  

It isn’t fair.

‘If she loves you,’ he declares finally into Bitty’s hair, treading carefully over each word, ‘then she’ll love all of you. Every wonderful bit of you.’ He kisses Bitty’s forehead softly, contemplates the options because this – this could be nothing. Or it could be everything.  

‘And,’ he swallows, makes himself say it, ‘if – if somehow she doesn’t, if it takes her a while to come around to it,’ because surely, _surely_ that’s only as far as the worst-case scenario could possibly go with Suzanne? _Please, please, please_ , ‘then you’ve got all of us in the meantime. _All_ of us, Bits. And she loves you.’ He’s seen Suzanne with her son; watched the two of them together, remembers the glimmer of envy at the closeness shared between them, their down-to-earth regularity without anxiety or hockey lodged between. Scratch the surface, he muses, hating himself for that now.

He’s not lying, either – Lardo and the boys will _never_ let Bitty down; would be there for him within a moment. Rans and Holster would probably clog up the highway trying to reach him, but they’d do it.  And besides, because frankly life’s too short and Jack wants to be as honest as he can be, hockey career and the culture aside:

‘You can stay with me for as long as you want,’ he assures, putting that on the table right now, Mrs Bittle’s scolding of ‘overstaying’ be damned. Sorry for the rudeness, Ma’am, but there it is. ‘I mean it.’ He takes his shoulders, makes him look up at him. ‘You have a home here, okay?’ He smiles sadly in the face of Bitty’s helpless nod. ‘Bits. You _have_ a home.’

Bitty, clearly weighed down by the emotions flickering over his face, simply buries it back in Jack’s front and Jack remains steady. It’s not nice to consider, this thing that Bits is clearly so afraid of and he hates himself for even touching upon it, on the possibility that Bitty’s parents wouldn’t...

And yet, Jack can’t help but wonder: is the love up in Georgia so unconditional after all? Does the warm Southern welcome only stretch so far; is there a turning point somewhere among the sunny gardens of barbecues and pies and potluck – could this be the thing that makes people slam the doors in their faces? Jack’s heard the stories; children and teenagers turned out of their homes, living on the streets with nowhere to go because their families somehow couldn’t accept them for who they were, for loving who they loved.

They wouldn’t. Richard and Suzanne wouldn’t – would they? Slam the door on Bitty – or even just leave it half-open from then on out? Available, but not welcoming? Jack’s not sure what would be worse – and anyway, they _can’t._ He’s their son.

And he’s _perfect._

‘Bits,’ he murmurs eventually into his hair. ‘I don’t know if it’ll help and – not to sound weird, but – if I were your parents? I’d much rather have you for my kid than any of those little –’ he says something _incredibly_ rude in French that rises a feeble giggle out of Bitty, and he chalks it up as a win ‘– who bullied you at school, anyway.’

‘A couple have started going to Mama’s church,’ Bitty huffs, into his t-shirt, ‘not – not the really horrible ones, that was my first school, but just a few of the guys from Madison. They used to shove me in the corridor and laugh at me, because they knew about the ice-skating. Then they found out I was Coach’s son and it stopped. I just…’ He shrugs. ‘Stupid, but I wonder if they still did things like that.’

‘I don’t know, bud,’ Jack shrugs right back, apologetically, Bitty wiping his eyes on the front of his shirt; it’s a bit of a sad story, but the fact that Bitty’s just managed to say all of that without breaking back down is a hopeful sign that the storm is passing. ‘Maybe, though. People change, eh?’ he nudges Bitty encouragingly, hoping to get the message across. ‘Everybody changes.’

He strokes his hair, rubbing his cheek against his head – light touches, enough to make Bitty feel grounded, enough to start breathing some stillness back into those shivering bones. Finally, with a few gentle murmurs, Jack reaches for the coverlet and drags it down, gestures Bitty in – he slips underneath, utterly drained – and climbs in after him, covers them both up.

‘We’ll just stay here a while, eh?’ he murmurs; Bitty’s tears are a damp patch on his t-shirt by now, so he whips it off and instead holds Bitty close to bare skin. ‘We’ll stay here, you and me.’

Bitty hums, slinging an arm over his waist like he’s an anchor. ‘Any – any excuse to get your clothes off, Mr. Zimmermann.’ They laugh at last, Jack relieved.

‘You know this place always feels empty without you?’ he tells him finally, ‘every time you’ve left this past year, I’ve just – I’ve been staring at these empty spaces and knowing you were here just an hour ago, singing too loudly, or baking and taking up all the counter space with your pie, or sitting on the pool table and tossing the balls from hand to hand and I just – I had to do something, or I’d just stand staring at the apartment wishing you weren’t on a bus right then heading back to Samwell. So I’d – I’d go for a run or go to the rink or call George or – or something. Just to distract myself from the fact you weren’t around.’

‘Honey…’ Bitty manages, looking touched; Jack rubs his stomach, gives Bitty a chance to talk, to continue, but he doesn’t – just stares up at him, openly and fondly.

‘I love you,’ Jack shrugs presently. ‘So if it’s all the same to Suzanne, having you for longer is. Well. It’s a gift, Bits.’ He laces their fingers together. ‘It’ll be weird when you go away again, but I’ve got you for now, eh? And you can _always_ come back.’

Bitty’s smile broadens, face still swollen and red with so many tears but his eyes just a little brighter, a little less glazed as he presses his forehead, his mouth against Jack’s skin. ‘I love you too, honey. And I – I like it here,’ he snuggles in, eyes softly flitting against the hairs on Jack’s chest. ‘I feel – it’s nice. I miss it when I go, too. Miss _you,’_ he adds hastily as though it’s Jack he prefers and not just the clean kitchen and a chuckle raises Jack’s shoulders as he tenderly rubs Bitty’s arms, his hands, his shoulders. 

‘I’ll support you however you want to do this,’ he whispers in his ear soothingly, ‘but you’ve got a whole team behind you – two teams, actually, not just one,’ Bitty grins a little, wide-eyed at the prospect, ‘and you’ve got my parents’ support and you’ve got me.’ He kisses Bits’ temple in the same moment that Bitty presses a kiss over his heart and then he finally just _settles,_ nestling into Jack’s arms, something eased and loosened, even if the bigger problem hasn’t yet been resolved.

‘Thanks, honey,’ he yawns, eyes slipping shut, breathing in and out deeply, his face, delicate and rubbed raw with anxiety, easing into something relaxed as he blows out air against Jack’s chest in a controlled whoosh, his mouth a becalmed ‘o.’ Those handy breathing exercises, Jack thinks, not without a grateful affection, you can never beat them; something he and Bits have both doing for a long time, both separately and together. He doesn’t have to guess that it won’t be too long before Bitty starts to drift and he’s absolutely correct: his boyfriend’s deliberate inhale-exhale evens out and he falls into a doze in Jack’s arms.

Not a bad idea and a nap always helps, so Jack lets his eyes shut, thinking on a memory in the shape of Tater’s voice, a conversation they’d had some time ago after Bitty had met the team:

_‘You marry him, yes?’ Tater asked eagerly at breakfast, when it was just the two of them at the table, Jack sharing a pie with him that Bitty had left behind at the apartment, ‘you snap up lovely B, quick-sharp, or I marry him **just** for pie, Zimmboni!’ He winked, gave a massive thumbs-up without a single hint of malice and Jack grinned as Tater slung an arm around him, grasped his hand, took it in good humour. _

_‘Yeah,’ he mused aloud, ‘he’d make a good husband.’ Even as he said it, he belatedly realised he wasn’t panicking at the prospect; wasn’t sweating at the possibility of commitment. It was just a simple fact. Tater squeezed him tight by the neck, cheered without pushing the subject and they’d shared another grin before tucking back in._

Pie! Jack suddenly comes to as he remembers; creeps out of bed, tugs the covers back over Bits – feels wrong to leave him, but this is important – and shaking off the sleepiness, heads back to the kitchen with a slight stumble. 

Bitty’s pie is still on the side, unfinished; Jack doesn’t want to interfere, but can’t leave it out in the open air to get stale. So instead he just slips it into the oven without turning it on; can let Bitty tinker with it later, if he needs. For now, he needs rest – they both do, and he slips back to the bedroom where Bits is most definitely sleeping. Yawning softly, Jack crawls back into bed beside him and shuts his eyes.

*


End file.
